Hush
by Unworthy
Summary: After the funeral, House and Wilson begin fighting, while House tries to treat a child who can't speak. Eventual Wouse. Spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

(A/N: Post House's Head/ Wilson's Heart. Spoilers. Proceed at your own risk. Also slash. Proceed at your own risk. Also very poorly written. Proceed at your own risk. You have been warned.)

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

Gregory House's beeper resounded in the stuffy, silent funeral parlor's air. He made an unsuccessful attempt to silence it, and it clattered to the floor. He picked it up, shot his weeping best friend an apologetic look, and limped away on the unadorned brown cane. The crisp, cool, open morning air greeted him as he slipped out the front door.

"I hate funerals." He muttered to no one but himself.

"Me too." A voice behind him agreed. House spun around violently, seeing only James Wilson, MD.

"Yeah, it must be hard when your patients die all the time."

"Harder when you're a sap like me." Tears arose in Wilson's eyes, and, suppressing his instinctive disgust, House nodded in what he hoped was an empathetic gesture.

"Wilson, I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you..."

"Really, House? Let's face the truth: You have no idea. Who have you ever lost? Who have you never been able to say goodbye to? Who have you ever _loved_?"

"I...Wilson, what can I say? What can I do?" Anger was emerging from underneath the prim sympathy.

"You've done enough, _Greg_. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to return to my girlfriend's funeral." He left. House grumbled a too-late reply.

"I never asked you out here, _Jimmy._"

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

"Oh, shove it." He snapped at his beeper. Hobbling to his motorcycle, mounting it, and firing up the obnoxious engine, he drove faster than was necessary towards Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Screeching to a stop in his reserved handicapped spot, House unhitched his cane, activated the kick-stand, and walked jauntily into the hospital. Kutner and Thirteen greeted him. The young woman's colorless voice berated him.

"The patient presented with-"

"Huntington's, I know that you're eager to get home to your lover of indeterminate gender, but can't you wait until I get to my office?"

That shut her up, though a wannabe-foxy smile played across her face, making her look a bit like a hyena. She pouted up until the elevator slid open on their floor, House walked with his unstable but imperturbable gait into the office, slid past his computer and bookcase, and stood by the infamously pristine whiteboard. He opened his mouth for a moment before speaking.

"Annnnnnd..._now_, we can begin. Thirteen, what did the patient present with?" He smirked as she fumbled with her folder.

"The patient presented with tightness in the chest, coughing, and general malaise."

"So, give him a chest scan."

"We can't." Foreman interjected. House rolled his eyes.

"Why not? Burn victim? Severe phobia? Overbearing spouse?"

"Overbearing _mother._" Kutner contributed.

"Ah, my favorite. How old's the kid?"

"Six." Forman sighed.

"Ah, my favorite." All four teammates looked perplexed. Taub broke the puzzled silence.

"But, you hate kids, right, House?"

"Kids tend to lie less when they're under seven. I've got a better chance of diagnosing with information straight from the horse's mouth than with the crap that his mommy'll give me." He stood to leave. Thirteen grabbed his arm before he reached the door. He shook her off.

"_What_?"

"The kid's a mute."


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: Wow...9 Story Alerts... Hope I can deliver...)

"_Selective_ mute," The severe-looking blonde woman stressed. "It's just his idea of a game." She laughed a vile snigger and glanced at her son, who lay in the hospital bed.

House was not amused.

"Well, then how do you know that your son is suffering from-" He glanced at the manilla folder open on his lap. "-general malaise?"

"Oh, he writes down whatever he wants to say."

"And he wrote down 'general malaise'?"

"Well, not _precisely_..." Her voice became even more nasally on that last word, causing House's left nostril to flare in displeasure. He popped his third pill in the fifteen-minute period in which he had retaken the boy's history.

"Look, regardless of how your son told you of his discomfort, we can't do anything about it unless you let us give him a chest scan."

"Alright, then. If you must." She sighed.

Back in the office, House sat at his desk, pensively resting his head on the crook of his cane's handle. A shallow, emotionless voice echoed over from the door.

"You know, it _is_ possible that she just rethought her declination, you know?" Thirteen leaned against the doorframe.

"No. People vying for Parent of the Year don't just allow their kids to be poked and prodded. She's hiding something."

"But sh-" Thirteen protested. House cut her off.

"No. Just no. Do you have the results?"

She walked theatrically across the room, pulled a sheet out of her folder, and shoved it onto the backlight, clicking it on. While walking out, she muttered a single phrase.

"The kid is dying, House. Lung cancer."

"That's impossible. Lung cancer in a six year old boy?"

But the quarter-sized black dot in the chest scan begged to differ. And only one person could help the boy now. House picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory.

"Hello? Wilson? I need you."


	3. Chapter 3

('Author' Note: Dang, guys, too much pressure! I feel, what with everyone and their mom faving this and whatnot, that I should be updating more often... Sorry if the next few chapters are short. I just love me them cliff-hangers.)

James 'Jimmy' Wilson, MD, peered at the chest scan through squinted eyes.

"That's cancer, all right. Now may I leave?" Vexation slid through the cracks of his professionalism. House noted that he was gritting his teeth, an unusual habit for one so oft-concerned with having a prim exterior, and failed to keep his mouth shut about it.

"Temporomandibular Joint Syndrome." He ventured. Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Last time I checked, grinding your teeth doesn't cause spots on the lung. Pray, House, indulge me."

"Not the kid, dummy. You."

"_What_?"

"Experiencing any lockjaw?" House enunciated the last two syllables.

"House, this isn't funny. You're being a jerk. Just.." He struggled for words "... Just back the hell off, and get the kid a lung biopsy." He started toward the door.

"Oh, yeah, and Dr.House?"

House expelled air through his nostrils in an aggravated fashion.

"Yes, _Dr._Wilson?"

"Fuck off."

House glared, and shot him his middle finger in response. Wilson shook his head, exhaled and left.

Taub slid the needle slowly into the peaceful-and angelic looking-boy. The expected fluids came out into the body of the syringe. He turned to Foreman, who was assisting, for once.

"Seems strange that this little bit of fluid holds the prognosis for the rest of this kid's life." Foreman shrugged.

"Modern medicine at its finest." Taub looked away. Foreman had completely missed the point.

"Last time _I _try to be philosophical." He murmured. Forman turned.

"Excuse me?" He spoke politely, having honestly not heard.

"Nevermind." Taub sighed. "Just talking to myself."

Thirteen slammed the test results on House's desk. The senior doctor removed his headphones and looked up at her expectantly.

"No cancer. Boy's lungs're fine."

"How can his lungs be fine? There's a black spot the size of Manhattan on his left lung!"

"Regardless, he's cancer-free."

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

House limped away, almost to the door before Thirteen's beeper began its shrill exclamations.

By the time they both arrived, Kutner was already splattered with reddened vomit. House just stood there, knowing that he could do nothing for the child, what with his leg and all, and let the nurses rush in. After the vomiting spell had passed, House walked slowly over to the the still remarkably silent child, whose bed sheet were currently being discarded of, when he spotted spilled vomit on the floor. Of course, it was too late, and his cane's rubber stopper had no place to grip on to.

Luckily, only his dark denim jeans suffered contact with the slippery mass of upchuck. The rest of him lay on the ground for a short moment before he outstretched an arm to wrench himself up. Suddenly, he began to yell.

"Somebody save this vomit! Quick, get me a urine sample cup! Kutner, you're already soiled, get over here and scoop up the spew!"


	4. Chapter 4

("Author" Note: Alright, do me a favor. If you've read this far, you obviously like the story. So, please be kind and review. Constructive criticism is awesome. Oh, and sorry for the wait. I'm sick.)

Kutner, who still hadn't changed out of his puke-soaked sweatshirt, picked apart the chunks of vomit with his tweezers. He gasped, and Foreman, who was busy procuring a pair of scrubs for him, looked up.

"What?" He inquired. Kutner smiled.

"I've just broken this whole case _wide open_." He popped his knuckles.

House knocked on Wilson's door loudly. Wilson swung it open angrily.

"Do you mind, House?"

"Yep. What's the combo for your locker? I know you changed locks on me."

Wilson was not phased. He simply walked to his desk, took out a sticky note, wrote a series of numbers on it and approached House again.

"House, I don't _want_ to know, do I?" At that, House spun- surprisingly gracefully- around, displaying the back of his jeans. Wilson made a faint sound of disgust, and grabbed House's shoulder, spinning him back around. House raised his eyebrows.

"Good enough for you?" Wilson said nothing, but rather stuck his white sticky note with 'Live each day as if it were your last'- ironically given to him by a now deceased patient- printed on it onto the other man's chest.

"Thanks, _buddy_." A rather sarcastic smile came from House's lips and Wilson shouted after him.

"You're unbelievable, House." He slammed the door behind him.

House smirked and walked away.

Arriving at the locker room, House found his team waiting for him. Before he could ask, Foreman cut him off.

"You needed new pants. Wilson keeps his sweats here." House sulked.

"Do you have anything to tell me, Holmes? Which, by the way, is in no way related to the common nickname among your people, but rather to your deductive reasoning ability."

"Well, we analyzed the vomit. We found cotton balls."

"Re-do the chest scan."

Thirteen cocked her head to the side, puzzled.

"But he's not complaining of any chest-related symp-"

"He's not complaining of anything, though, is he?" She pouted again, as she always did when proven wrong.

As the four doctors walked away, they heard House curse loudly, then the clang of a metal lock against its metal compartment.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit! Somebody get me some scrubs!"

Kutner left quickly to find a supply closet while the other three went to confront the mother once again.

"Absolutely not." She was insistent.

"Ma'am," Taub began, "We believe that there might have been a mistake on the first scan. It's possible that your son doesn't have cancer after all."

"Absolutely not." Thirteen began her round.

"Excuse me, Mrs.Ingersal? How long has it been since your son stopped talking?"

"Ever since his father's death, about six months ago. What does this have to do with anything?"

"PTSD." The commanding voice came from the doorway, where House and Kutner stood.

"Yeah, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD." Kutner nodded and smiled. House glared, and he joined his peers in the far left corner of the room.

"Did your husband die in an accident?" He stepped out from behind the doorway, and his light blue scrub pants made Thirteen smirk.

"Why, no, Dr..."

"House." The five doctors. said in unison.

"Dr. House, my husband's death was caused by stomach cancer."

"Oh? I bet that was just _so _difficult for you and Billy, here."

"Bobby. His name is Bobby."

"So? I bet it was a difficult time for him."

"Yes, it was for all of us. He was only thirty-two, you know?"

"Yes. Now, have you ever sought psychological help for Bobby?"

"No, never!" The woman's hand found its own melodramatic way to her chest.

"Uh-huh. Why not?"

"I...didn't want him to have that stigma."

"Uh-huh." House left suddenly.

"My, my." She mused. "What was _that_ about?"

The team filed out without saying a word. Kutner took a single glance at Bobby, waving 'bye' with his fingers nervously.

"Munchausen-By-Proxy!" Kutner exclaimed as he arrived in the office.

"Very good, Kutner. Want a cookie?" The younger doctor frowned at House's canine implications. The team of four sat down, and Taub rested his hands in his cradled fingers.

"That poor kid."

"Yeah." House stood at the window, staring blankly. "Taub, call Child Services. I...I gotta go."


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm...sorry, Wilson."

"No, you aren't."

House signed into his clasped hands. His elbows rested on his knees, his body leaning forward toward the other man as he sat on the oncologist's couch. Wilson leaned against his desk, arms crossed against his chest,

"You're impossible."

"And you're not sorry." Wilson uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his hips. "House, we've had this conversation before. A thousand times."

"Look, Wilson, my patient-"

"Doesn't have cancer, I know. So why are you here?" The bitterness echoed in the other man's ears. House began to raise his voice.

"I'm here to say sorry, but evidently that's not good enough for you, is it?"

"Well, 'sorry' won't bring back Amber, will it?"

"What the hell does she have to do with this, Wilson?"

"Everything!"

House shut up for a moment before standing gingerly and pulling Wilson toward him by the shirt collar.

"I didn't kill her." He hissed through gritted teeth. The man who was now about four inches from House's face stared. He spoke in a hushed, but audible, tone.

"Yes, you did."

House let go of Wilson's collar. Their eyes met for an immeasurable length of time before Doctor James Wilson drew back his fist and hit Doctor Gregory House square in the jaw. House stumbled backward, grasping his bleeding mouth.

"Get the hell out of my office."

And House obeyed. For once. He walked straight out of the office, into the elevator, across the lobby, ignoring Cuddy's inquiries about his exsanguinating lips. He walked into the parking lot, to his motorcycle, and drove home. He walked straight into his apartment and closed the door quietly.

In the bathroom, he washed out his mouth. No major damage, just pain. He walked into his den.

On top of the bookcase was the box. Standing on his piano stool, he could reach it with ease. However, that stool was rickety, to say the least, and as he seized the box, the back left leg gave in and he tumbled down, hitting the floor on his leg.

For the longest moment he laid there, staring through the pain, until he remembered the box. Wincing as he sat up, he undid the clasp and opened the beautiful thing.

His thoughts raced while he tied the rubber piping around his upper arm. Should he be doing this? Of course he should. He was, after all, in pain. Lots of pain. More pain than Vicodin could handle. And the patient? Thirteen would handle the papers, the mother would be put in jail. No obligations, why not?

"Yeah." He murmured. "No obligations."

He slid the needle into his inner elbow and injected himself with the morphine. In seconds he felt it ease all of his aches. He tried to get up, but just ended up laying down on the rug. It was a deep-pile rug. He stared into his ceiling. There was a teeny crack forming in the plaster near the corner. He went to sleep.

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP_

He jumped, the beeper waking him up. It was Wilson. He threw it across the room. Back to sleep.

_BANG BANG BANG BANG_

Somebody was knocking on his door now. He wrenched himself up, found his cane, and tottered toward the door. Opening it, his friend stared back at him.

"I've been beeping you, House, why aren't you answering?"

House closed the door and was nearly done locking it when Wilson pushed through.

"House, it's nine o'clock. You left the hospital at three fifteen. What have you been doing?"

House just looked at the other man.

"Get the hell outta my apartment."

"House? Your pupils are dilated... Are you...?"

"Get out."

"I brought you some Vicodin for your jaw..."

"Don't need it."

Wilson shook his head.

"House, you didn't..."

"Mmhmm."

"Let me in." Before House could respond, Wilson pushed his way into the apartment, eyeing the syringe on the floor and sighing. "I'll make some coffee."

"Sure, whatever." House started toward the bedroom groggily. Wilson took him by the wrist and lead him to the couch instead, sitting him down before heading to the kitchen to start the coffee, returning a few minutes later to find the other man asleep again. With little mercy he shook him awake, pushing the mug of black java into his hands.

"Drink up." He spat coldly. House obliged. After a few sips and one gulp, he turned to Wilson.

"Why're you doing this? I am, _after all_, responsible for your beloved girlfriend's death." House was facetious, even whilst on morphine. Wilson took it in stride.

"House, I... I didn't mean that, it was just..."

"A Freudian Slip? I think that you definitely meant it, you just didn't mean to _say_ it."

"House," He ran his fingers through his hair. "Why did you pull this little drug stunt? That punch couldn't have hurt _that _badly."

Their eyes met for approximately one-eighteenth of a second before House looked away.

"I didn't want to think about what you said. Don't you think that I know it's my fault she's dead? _I_ was the one who was drunk, _I_ was the one who dragged her onto the bus..._I _was the one who couldn't find the diagnosis fast enough. I'm the one who _should_ be blamed, don't you agree?"

Wilson said nothing.

"So, yeah, I shot up. Big fuckin' deal. And everything would've been dandy if you hadn't been born a sap, and showed up here, trying to give me painkillers for a punch that you knew didn't hurt me. It might be my fault she's dead, but it's your fault that _you_ slipped and reminded me."

That was the most that Wilson could take. He rose and stepped towards the door, a deep voice seething with fury emitting from him.

"House, do you want to know the _real_ reason I came here? It wasn't to give you your fix, it wasn't to browbeat you for skipping out on clinic hours, for God's sake, it wasn't even to check on you! I came here to _apologize_, and I found you, sprawled across your floor, a syringe practically sticking out of your arm, hopped up on morphine!" He was yelling now. "So, yeah, you shot up. And, yeah, it's a big fuckin' deal, House! Did you ever think about what the people around you go through when you get high? Did you ever think about what _I_ go through when you're high?"

House glared at the other man.

"If you don't want to deal with it, get out."

"Why? So you can shoot up again?"

"Why not? It's not like anyone gives a flying-" Wilson cut him off.

"Oh, don't go there. You'd really like to believe that you're all alone in the big bad world, wouldn't you? You're not, House. _I'm_ here, too."

Silence. House was, for once, speechless.

"That's what I thought, Greg. I might not have your alleged pain, but I've sure as hell been through everything you have."

House finally spoke.

"Bullshit." Wilson inhaled, then exhaled.

"You know, sometimes I wonder why I even try."

_SLAM._

House was alone again.


End file.
